


some words to heal and a place to pray

by savage_starlight



Series: after many miles [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Not Quite Confessions, Par for the course at this point, Pining like a motherfucking forest, Really just a whole lot of sitting in a room and not addressing issues, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Western Gothic, tense conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: A snowstorm, a couple drinks, and some not-quite conversations.--"How do you feel about a trade? A truth for a truth."
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: after many miles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535678
Comments: 24
Kudos: 145





	some words to heal and a place to pray

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! Me again with more fun times. I'm working my way slowly but surely through my million prompts and it's been a blast to write, so thank you to all those who have provided some of those for me!! This fic is actually a gift for my illustrious twinnie PantherLily, though it's a day late for the intended date of celebration...oops??
> 
> Song title this time comes from "Heal", by Raccoon Raccoon. It is both a fucking gorgeous song and perfect for Clayson and I may use it again for another fic title at some point. We'll see.
> 
> Thank you all again so much for your continued support!! It means the world to me, and this fandom is wonderful to write for. See you all again soon!!

Matthew is learning that the winters are brutal here in Deadwood.

He’s spent enough time in the cold to be used to it, knows how to handle the chill. All the same, he finds himself wishing he’d cut more wood for the stove in his room, or at least found a place to store what he’d already cut so thieves would be less likely to take it for themselves. The bones of his left hand have never quite healed right, and they ache in the winter chill as he rubs at them ruefully and listens to the storm raging outside.

It’s probably pointless to go downstairs, if he’s being honest. Saturday morning confessions are a hopeless practise when the weather’s decent, and with the weather being as shitty as it is Matthew knows better than to expect anybody. All the same, he feels obligated to show up for at least a few minutes just in case, so he bundles up and stumbles out the door into the cold.

He keeps the church unlocked out of a sense of obligation, though it goes against almost every habit he knows to do so. All the same, there are times it feels like the best idea he’s ever had, shy of coming to Deadwood in the first place – such as now, when he stumbles off the final icy step to the first floor and only has to shoulder the door open rather than struggle with unlocking it.

Not that it’s any warmer inside, really. Matthew huffs out a breath and watches it cloud the air before him before dissipating. This is miserable weather for being in a church. It’s miserable weather for being anywhere, and there’s a part of him that’s sorely tempted to turn around as soon as he enters just so he can go back to being upstairs where he’s at least closer to the stove.

That’s when he sees the figure slumped against one of the pews.

It’s been a long time since the days of the cavalry, where he learned young that a slumped figure was usually a figure best avoided unless he wanted to watch rats feast on some dead bastard’s guts. All the same, there’s a certain degree of instinct that still flares up at the sight of someone sitting so still, and Matthew finds himself reaching for a sabre that isn’t there before he can think about it. Then his mind catches up with his eyes, and his jaw slackens with recognition. “Clayton? What are you doing here?”

The familiar form of the gunslinger stiffens as suddenly as if he’s been shocked, head shooting up and knocking into the side of the pew. Clayton lets out a string of words that certainly don’t belong in a church as he rubs his head, and Matthew thinks he’d be amused by the sight if he wasn’t so busy being confused. Clayton looks up at him from beneath his hat as he approaches with narrowed eyes. “You always greet people like that, Reverend? I’m not surprised there isn’t a bigger crowd here.”

“I think in Deadwood, such greetings would endear more people than they would estrange,” Matthew notes wryly, extending a hand downward. Clayton takes it without further comment, and Matthew’s eyebrows furrow at the chill he feels even through both of their gloves. “Your hands are freezing.”

“So is everything in this bumblefuck town right now,” Clayton mutters, shaking a bit of hair out of his eyes. This close Matthew can see flakes of frost and snow scattered about the strands, and when Clayton lets go of Matthew’s hand he shifts his weight to rest heavier on his back foot.

He's one hell of a poker player, Matthew can give him that. But after all they’ve been through together, he knows a deflection when he hears one. Clayton’s injured, physically or mentally or maybe both. The only real question is why he came here in the wake of that when his own hotel room is just down the street.

He’ll run if Matthew asks him anything, that much is certain. So Matthew doesn’t ask. Instead he raises an eyebrow and smiles, strange and crooked, and decides that he’ll go sparingly on the wood he's got stocked some other time. “You would be surprised how warm it gets upstairs now that the wall is intact,” he says, with a hint of suggestion.

Clayton gives Matthew a look like he’s trying to stare his skin off. “Pretty sure it ain’t standard for the preacher to leave church during confession hour because it’s cold out.”

“Deadwood is hardly a town where standards matter,” Matthew points out. “I’d rather tend to the people who show up than wait for the ones that haven’t.” He tilts his head toward the door. “Coming?”

Clayton stares him down for another minute, then grunts and pushes off the pew. “Fuck this icy shit,” he mutters. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Clayton’s definitely favouring his left foot. Matthew pretends not to notice, but it’s not an easy feat when the wind is blasting snow in both their faces and ice is making the already questionable stairs downright perilous. Clayton almost trips three times before he makes it to the top, and it’s only the need to hold the door at the top that keeps Matthew from saying fuck all to Clayton’s pride and carrying him like a sack of potatoes. As it is, he simply waits at the top and pulls the door shut behind both of them as soon as he’s able while Clayton sits stiffly in the chair by the stove.

It’s not until he’s closed the door that he realises how very small his room really is. Not, of course, that this is a time to think about that. Matthew clears his throat and claps his hands together with a smile. “Well then. Coffee?”

Clayton shakes his head. “No offence, but I know your cooking skills. Think I’ll pass.” There’s the barest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth like the hint of a joke, but it falls flat the longer Matthew looks at him. Clayton’s holding his side funny and he’s sitting close enough to the stove that he’s only a few inches shy of scooting into it altogether. Even so, he’s still shaking like a leaf.

The room is already stifling hot, but Matthew throws a few more logs on the fire anyway. Then he reaches into a drawer, pulls out a flask, and hands it to Clayton. “Here. I had nothing to do with making this.”

Clayton stares at him for a long minute, eyes flicking between his face and the flask. When he takes it, his expression is cautious. “Isn’t this one of Miriam’s?”

Matthew smiles. Clayton’s got sharp eyes, he always has. “Yes. I mentioned that I thought it might be considerate to keep such things on hand for when company is over and she gave me a spare she had lying around. It was very generous of her, I felt.”

“Generous indeed.” Clayton’s giving him that steely-eyed look again, the one that could probably pierce through a block of lead, but he takes a drink anyway and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Matthew can’t help noticing he doesn’t hand the flask back, instead clutching it tight in one hand as he stares into the flame.

At this point, it’s probably awkward to bring up the injury Clayton’s so poorly hiding. All the same, Matthew isn’t quite sure what else to talk about, which is perhaps why he starts humming as he sits on his bed and pretends to pore through his Bible again. It’s not until he feels the weight of Clayton’s stare pressing heavy on his shoulders that he realises, a moment too late, exactly what song his brain has provided in the absence of a conscious thought process.

“Battle Hymn of the Republic, huh?” Clayton stares at him steadily. “Can’t say as though I think of that as a church hymn.”

“Oh, it isn’t,” Matthew says, managing a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I’ve heard it quite a lot though. It’s rather catchy.”

Clayton snorts. “So’s smallpox. Doesn’t make it a good thing.”

“That’s…pessimistic,” Matthew says, a little hesitant. “I hadn’t thought there was much about the song to feel so disenchanted by. Can I ask what it is you dislike so much?”

“For starters, most of the people who used to sing it are dead now, far as I know. But maybe that’s just my experience. For a second, that chorus is so full of shit I can smell it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know what you were up to ten years ago, Reverend, but what I was seeing in my part of town didn’t involve any glory or truth marching on. Not unless you count a whole lot of bodies as glorious.”

There’s an edge creeping into Clayton’s tone, slowly but surely. For the first time since finding him downstairs, Matthew looks at him, _really _looks, and he sees something dark and angry in his eyes that’s never been there before, some strange mix of fear and fury. He knows better than to pry, knows it’s liable to get him snapped at or involved in a fight he neither wants to start nor finish. All the same, that doesn’t stop the question from falling unbidden from his mouth. “You doin' alright, Clayton? It ain't like you to come to the church and just sit there.”

“Maybe I felt like prayin'.”

“You don’t pray.” It’s not something any Reverend should say, and he knows it, but – well. Clayton’s got sharp eyes and a past like a hangman’s noose following him around. Matthew knows the feeling well enough to say that if anybody understands the game he’s playing, who he is and who he isn’t, it’ll be Clayton.

“Not to God, no,” Clayton retorts. “I like to hedge my bets on things I know are listening.”

“I can serve as a listening ear, if there’s something that needs confessing.”

“Yeah? You also gonna serve as a closed fuckin’ mouth?”

The words snap out of Clayton like rubber bands, frozen and stiff with too much tension. In the silence that follows, the storm outside seems so much louder than it did before. Matthew can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, can almost see the way this conversation is balanced on the edge of a knife before him.

He knows his way around knives. He knows when you’re throwing, you have to hold it by the blade first if you want it to stick.

Matthew holds out his hand. “Can I see that flask a minute?” His tone is even and careful, and it seems to catch Clayton on just the right side of off-guard to keep him from bolting at the sudden shift of tone. All the same, there’s no small amount of caution when he hands over the flask. Clayton isn’t shaking with the cold anymore, just sits there perfectly still. Matthew can feel him watching as he uncaps the flask and gives a hearty swig, swallowing past the burn with ease.

He caps it and sets it on the floor by the end of his bed and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “How do you feel about a trade? You ask me one question, and I’ll ask you one. No lying, no dancing around the subject. A truth for a truth.”

Clayton is staring at him with an unreadable expression. He’s the better poker player of the two of them to be sure. But Matthew hasn’t gotten this far by backing down. He sits, and he watches Clayton, and he waits.

The gunslinger nods once and leans back in his chair. “Who’s askin’ first?”

Matthew gestures invitingly. “Guests, of course.”

“Think I’d rather answer,” Clayton says. “I like to know what I’m giving up before I ask for reparations.”

“Fair enough.” Matthew taps his finger against his leg, rubs at the sore bones of his left hand, and wonders what this moment is worth for them, what this is going to mean. Understanding what keeps Clayton cagey won’t matter if the shared knowledge is enough to make him bolt the second the storm clears. This whole situation feels eerily familiar to an interaction with the Dealer, but whatever hand brings about a win in this scenario, Matthew isn’t sure he knows it.

Clayton raises an eyebrow. “Well, Matthew?”

Matthew meets his eyes. “How’d you find yourself here?”

“You’re gonna have to be more clear. Here as in Deadwood? Here as in the church?”

“You pick.”

“I’m here because the other option was a tall tree and a short rope, but I reckon you already know that.” Matthew hums in confirmation and Clayton grunts. “I got the name Coffin because I was a deadshot. One round and in the ground, that’s what some of them said. Only problem was that some people didn’t like who I was puttin’ down.”

“That so?”

Clayton nods. Then he leans forward again. “How about you, Reverend? As I recall, Mister Swearengen had a thought that all of us had killed before we got to Deadwood. Was he right?”

For a moment, it’s all there again. The horses. The bodies. A dozen wounded men, their limbs rotting where they sat on the saddles. The reek of decay is thick in the air, and the mud is plastered to Matthew’s skin. The echo is like a drumbeat in his head. Keep riding. Keep riding. There is a face like God in his mind, but he’s never believed in God and he’s not about to start now. _Do you want to make a deal? _the man asks, and for the first time in his life religion makes sense to him. God’s a faceless fucker with a deck of cards. He fits right in with the rest of them.

“Yes,” Matthew says, and sets his jaw. “Yes, he was.”

“A lot?”

“Enough.”

Clayton stares at him, steady and long. “I ain’t ever shot a man who didn’t draw on me first. Can you say the same?”

Mason smiles without any teeth. “I think that’s another question entirely,” he says and offers the flask out again, raising an eyebrow.

Clayton waves a hand in rejection. “Think I got enough fire in my belly for one morning.”

“Fair enough.” Mason nods, caps the flask, and tucks it back in a drawer. Outside, the storm is still howling. Matthew doesn’t bother trying to revive their conversation, not right now. Instead, he adds another log to the fire and stokes it, then positions himself by the window to watch the snow falling in sheets outside. The storm is impressive, but it won’t last forever, and Matthew thinks the world will be gorgeous when it finally settles down. Everything will be covered in diamonds and glass and looking pure as birth. Children will go outside to play in it when they can, but they won’t last either. Life’s funny like that.

In the end, it’s Clayton who breaks the silence. “Got another question.”

“Might have another answer,” Matthew replies. “Shoot.”

“Do you believe in the wrath of God?”

It’s a strange question from him. Matthew turns from the window to meet Clayton’s gaze and arches an eyebrow. “Are you asking for a technical answer or a truthful one?”

Clayton shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Matthew crosses his arms, leaning back as he contemplates. His back presses against the window, covered with frost and a chill that bites through his vestments. It’s cold as the fucking grave out there. He should know. “I’ll admit, the idea of the Lord coming back to punish the wicked with fire fills me with excitement and concern in equal measure. But I’m not expecting that to happen any time soon.”

“And why’s that?”

Matthew thinks of snakes and corpses and ash, and he smiles without humour. “If all He's after is passing judgment and filling grave, I don't think He has to worry about us. We do a good job of it for Him.”

Clayton gives him a look that says he’s only gotten more curious now, but Matthew doesn’t give him a chance to ask. He pushes off from the wall and crosses to the bedside table, beginning to rummage around until he finds what he's looking for. He turns with a tin of ointment in one hand and a roll of bandages in the other and ignores the way Clayton glowers at the sight. “You’ve been holding your side since you got in here, and there’s something not right about your left foot either. I won’t ask you what happened, but I’d appreciate if you would take care of it while it’s just the two of us.”

“You’re more observant than you look, Father,” Clayton mutters.

Matthew feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “The Lord sees everything, my friend, for He watches over all His sheep.”

“I ain’t got the coat to be a sheep.” Clayton holds out a hand. “Gimme those.”

Matthew holds out the bandages, but when Clayton tries to take them he doesn’t let go. The gunslinger’s eyes shoot up to meet his, and for a moment Matthew is pinned by slate blue eyes, sharp enough to freeze him solid. He clears his throat and pretends he isn’t as bothered as he is. “Need a hand?”

“Need you to let go of these,” Clayton says, and Matthew complies, the brief tension dissipating like a breath in the air between them. Clayton shifts back in his chair and starts to fiddle with his boot. “It’s nothin’ too bad, at any rate. Shouldn’t even scar.”

Matthew nods, just once, and finds the room to be very suddenly stifling. “I’ll trust your judgment in that regard,” he says, and looks to the window. By the looks of it, the storm is here to stay for the immediately foreseeable future. He might as well make sure they'll be comfortable.

He crosses the room to the coat rack and starts to get ready. Clayton's eyebrows furrow with a confusion Matthew pretends he doesn't see. “What are you doin’?”

Matthew smiles, quick and easy. “Giving you some privacy, for one. For another, I'm going down to grab some more wood from the back. Seems we’ll be in here a while. It’s a hell of a storm.” He buttons the coat up quickly and smiles at Clayton, ignoring the strange look he’s giving him as he puts on a hat. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t set anything on fire while I’m gone. Just got the place rebuilt.” He leaves before the other man has a chance to retort, pressing his back against the door to shut it and breathing deeply in the biting cold. It occurs to him a moment too late that he forgot his gloves, but now doesn't feel like the time to go back in for them.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and freezes when his fingers brush against a handful of bullets where there's supposed to be a rosary. Then he realises all at once why Clayton had been staring. This isn't his jacket.

Matthew closes his eyes, mutters a curse he wouldn't dare say inside the church, and makes his way down the stairs.


End file.
